Page 42 of Lucas
“I know you don’t like my style, but we’re not at a mandatory event, and therefore I’m allowed to wear what I want.”
He tilts his head. “I never said I don’t like your style.”
“No? Then why did you fill my closet with completely different clothes?”
“The stylist I hired picked out the clothes, not me, and she chose them according to what’s popular in high society today.” His jaw tightens.
“According to what’s popular in high society today,” I repeat after him in a mocking tone.
“So what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem.”
“Sounds to me like there is.”
I raise my head. “You took all my personal style, the way I dress, and buried it. You ignored everything that is me. So forgive me if I’m not pleased.”
“What did you want me to do?” He furrows his brow.
“I don’t know, maybe ask me to buy dresses? Or maybe, just maybe, inform your staff of my personal taste before you send them to buy piles of clothes?”
He twists his mouth. “I don’t consider the requests of my employees.”
I raise my face to his and look him in the eye, my teeth almost chattering with anger. “I. Am. Not. Your. Employee.”
He rises to his feet, the movement sudden and startling in the charged stillness of the room. In two strides, he’s around the table and looming over me, one hand braced on the backof my chair, the other coming to rest on the table beside my elbow, caging me in.
He brings his face within a touch of mine.
“No, you’re definitely not my employee.” He moves even closer, his lips almost touching mine.
My eyes widen, and I let out a small gasp of need. My body is burning, and his eyes are blazing as he glares at me as if I’m the meal being served on the table.
“Ready for the first course?” Hugo enters, holding a tray, and Lucas pulls away from me at once, straightening his shirt.
Hugo’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry, sir. Should I come back in a few minutes?”
“No need. We’re ready to eat,” Lucas says and returns to his seat.
I struggle to catch my breath. What just happened here? Was he going to kiss me? To punish me? I don’t know, but whatever he had in mind, I wanted it. My body wanted every moment and every touch from him.
We sit in tense silence as Hugo places the cheese and fig salad I prepared earlier on the table, the delicate clink of china the only sound in the cavernous dining room. I keep my gaze fixed on my plate.
Hugo, perhaps sensing the frigid atmosphere, makes a hasty retreat, leaving us alone in the suffocating stillness. I release the air trapped in my lungs in a slow, measured exhale, trying to ease the tightness in my chest.
“I’ll make sure my stylist picks out new clothes to your liking,” Lucas says, his tone icy enough to frost the delicate salad greens. He lifts his fork, stabbing at a fig.
“I don’t need?—”
“I’m not arguing with you about this,” he cuts me off, his voice sharp.
“No, you’re commanding,” I shoot back, my tongue darting out to wet my dry lips. “I don’t think you know how to request or to ask. Not everything has to be an order.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches.
Did I hit a nerve?
But he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he goes back to eating as if I hadn’t spoken, his movements precise and controlled. I purse my lips, something hot and furious unfurling in my gut at his dismissal.
